


The Same Air

by chainofclovers



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 08:21:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9170596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainofclovers/pseuds/chainofclovers
Summary: In which other people kind of get it, and Miranda and Andy try not to think about it too much.





	

**Author's Note:**

> (Unrelated to my story: Have you read "[The Edge Is What She Has](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9061018)" by [awomannotagirl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/awomannotagirl/pseuds/awomannotagirl) or "[We Arrive in the Dark](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8879404)" by [jibrailis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jibrailis/pseuds/jibrailis) yet? If not, get thee to some additional browser tabs. And let them know what you think!)

“A mentorship?” Miranda explained vaguely when Nigel finally asked, an uncharacteristic upturn at the end of her sentence. She didn’t apologize for the bald-faced lie, but amended it immediately: “A bit of fun.”

Miranda’s bit of fun, Andy Sachs, was a former employee, a journalist, a Midwesterner. She was unusual among their New York circle for her ability to stay in touch past the empty promises that could string along a friendship for months. This unique quality explained why, even years after she’d worked at Runway, Andy still had after-work drinks with Emily, lunches with Nigel, something unclassifiable (and now something new) with Miranda. Plenty of people expressed an interest in coffee, drinks, “ _finally_ catching up!” Andy actually followed through. She kept the people she found. 

Nigel needed clarification. He and Miranda were _finally_ catching up, as it were. These conversations, enjoyable but seldom, took some care. “When you say fun…” He frowned, tried again. “Okay. Fall 2009 Ready-to-Wear. Fun like Gucci, or fun like Thakoon?”

Half the clothes in that Gucci line were splashed with big polka dots. The blouses, tucked inside menswear-inspired suits in staid monochrome, looked like you wanted not to care but cared too much instead, and everyone could see it written all over you. Thakoon had created dresses like a rainbow of dropped handkerchiefs. And his unserious fur hats and jackets: _I actually don’t care_.

Nigel and Miranda were seated outdoors, at a bar with a sidewalk view. What was the point of being famous if you had to stay indoors? It was just barely still warm enough for sitting outside with pinot grigio. Soon autumn would actually descend, and those RTW collections unveiled in January would make their seasonally-appropriate arrival on certain streets, this street included.

Miranda had attended the Democratic National Convention in 2008, heart beating faster at the sight of Michelle Obama in Thakoon Panichgul. Thakoon was to fashion as Michelle Obama was to America. Fresh air for everyone who needed it. Miranda took a sip of wine, clicked through her mental slideshow of clothes. “Thakoon,” she said finally, though the time it took to answer wasn’t spent making a decision. It was a big answer all the same. “Nothing to worry about, though,” she added when Nigel opened his mouth in surprise. It had been so many years since she’d done the queer self-destruction thing. Find an inappropriate woman, spend a few months with her, absorbed in private torture, end it with an inevitable sort of cruelty. 

This wasn’t that, exactly. Andy wasn’t interested in pain. She liked bright, straightforward orgasms, which Miranda gave her in bed. She liked being kissed hello and goodbye on her red-lipsticked mouth. 

\--

A couple months later, Nigel received an email inviting him to Thanksgiving at Miranda’s home. _She doesn’t have enough PTO to go to Ohio_ , Miranda explained. _So of course we’re having dinner here. Come by at 3 p.m. if you don’t have anywhere else to be._

The nameless pronoun was very Miranda; the explanation was not. The rationale “of course” was a human decency to which Miranda did not habitually subscribe. Nigel, perky and fun and very, very lonely, was relieved to have holiday plans. 

At 4 p.m. on Thanksgiving day, the meal wasn’t nearly ready. Miranda had roasted a turkey and prepared dressing in a large casserole dish, and these contributions were under control. But Andy had wanted to accessorize the meal with multiple side dishes, and she’d bit off more than she could chew. Nigel, who had arrived on time and was happy to wait, sat at the table in the middle of the aromatic kitchen. He kept everyone’s glasses full of water and wine. He carefully frosted a layer cake Andy had baked the night before. Andy bustled about, opening and closing every appliance, lifting every lid, frowning at the slow progress. Miranda leaned against a counter, smiling into her wine. The steam from the oven was probably doing wonders for everyone’s wintery skin. 

Nigel hadn’t realized he’d be a third wheel, but the twins, his favorite social buffers, his honorary nieces, were in Martha’s Vineyard with their father. He was sorry to miss them, though their absence surely made Miranda and Andy more open, the better for him to observe. All the same, they didn’t seem particularly affectionate with each other, and he wondered if “nothing to worry about” meant careful distance, or a sexually tense friendship, and not the affair he'd assumed. Then he watched Miranda watch Andy learn toward the oven and brush her long loose hair behind her ears for the hundredth time. Miranda slipped away, came back with a hair tie, stood just behind Andy and braided her hair slowly and carefully, fingers lingering at Andy’s neck. Nigel didn’t miss Andy’s closed eyes, and Miranda, glancing backward, didn’t miss him missing them either. 

“First holiday together,” Nigel said later, between bites. It was perhaps a risk to venture the _together_ , but a risk worth taking. 

Andy smiled and took the pedantic route. “Well, not exactly: we’ve already had Halloween. I took the girls out to a block party thing in my neighborhood, since apparently they're too old for trick-or-treating.”

Miranda played along. “Veterans Day, even more recently. A day to say ‘thank you.’ I called my father, of course, and Andy texted with both brothers.” 

“What else, Miranda, Columbus Day? That bastard.” 

“Labor Day, too.” This made Andy giggle. 

Andy hadn’t had Labor Day off work, but they’d skipped dinner to fuck. Ate delivered ramen in bed much later, which was an awful idea. It had been maybe the third- or fourth-happiest day of Miranda’s life. And perhaps the least complicated day of her entire adulthood. 

“Tomorrow night is Friendsgiving at Lily’s,” Andy said. “Miranda’s coming, because she’s obviously at her most comfortable sitting on a crowded living room floor eating leftovers with drunk people.” She turned to Miranda and grinned. “God, you’re lucky.”

“What are you two gonna do,” Nigel breathed at the end of their laughter, hardly meaning to speak it out loud. This was something to worry about. This was spending time with the kids, and tolerating each other’s friends. This was love, and with Miranda the Destroyer and Andy the bullheaded idealist involved, what could love be but something ruinous and obsessive?

Miranda shrugged. “Not thinking about it.” 

“Or thinking about it all the time,” added Andy, not in argument but in agreement. 

After the meal, they switched from wine to tea so they wouldn’t get hangovers, and then they switched from conversation at the table to football in the den. They each had their own reason to like football. For Andy, a connection to her rough-and-tumble family. For Nigel, young men in tight pants. For Miranda, a chance to let her guard down, to only half pay attention, and with zero personal consequences. 

They were all sugar-glazed and sleepy by the time the primetime game came on, and inertia and proximal loyalty to the New York Giants led them to watch it. Andy’s braid hung down the back of the sofa. Miranda sat next to her, a decorous distance away, but Andy filled her lap with pillows. By halftime, Miranda cat-napped there, Andy’s hand snaking through her hair. 

Nigel left after the Broncos finished walloping the Giants. “That game was embarrassing,” Nigel said as Andy walked him to the door. She’d loaded him down with half the leftovers.

“I love you, Nigel,” Andy said. She gave him a young little hug, and he walked home warm. 

\--

“Aches and pains,” said Andy’s mother Maureen, who always called everyone on New Year’s Day, good-naturedly forcing everyone to reflect on the year past, to make their resolutions, to stay a good family. They’d already spoken of nutrition and activism, of their family trip to Chicago the previous summer, of Maureen’s desire to adopt a new dog. And now, apparently, they had changed the subject. 

The connection between their cell phones wasn’t especially strong, but Andy knew she’d heard right. Still: “What did you say?”

“Aches and pains,” Maureen repeated. “I’m only a little older than she is, and I ought to know. It’s like--like growing pains in reverse, maybe. I can’t remember what it felt like the first time around.”

“Okay?”

“When you first told me you were dating Miranda, I didn’t know if it would be serious, but I think it is.”

“Yeah, I mean--”

“So I should tell you that aging is no picnic. You get tired, but you can’t sleep, and every joint creaks. Doesn’t sound like much fun, does it? Go easy on her, is all I’m saying.” 

Andy blushed so hard she was sure her mother could see the pink color over the phone. She was lucky to be alone in her apartment. “Uh, thanks, Mom.” 

Maureen laughed. She sounded pleased with herself. “You’re welcome.” 

“So you’re okay with this? We’ve already been on a couple gossip sites. It’s not a huge deal, but it’s gonna be annoying for a while.”

“Honey? Remember when I had one son in Iraq and the other in Afghanistan? And your father decided he’d work seventy hour weeks instead of feeling scared? And my company got bought out? And you moved to Illinois for grad school? I survived that. I think I’ll survive your little scandal. Especially if you’re enjoying it.” 

She wondered if Miranda creaked. If Miranda’s insomnia was an age thing. She thought about the time Miranda told her she’d always been old. That she felt healthy but ancient, that she’d felt that way even when she was much younger. 

\--

That night, Andy suggested an early bedtime, piled up extra pillows on the bed and encouraged Miranda to recline. She was very earnestly massaging Miranda’s hands when Miranda frowned up at her. “What are you doing?”

“Um.”

Miranda squirmed, pushing one of the extra pillows to the floor in irritation. She closed her eyes. For 2010, she was trying a brand-new thing called “think before you speak.” Less than a day in, Andy could already recognize what that particular effort looked like. 

“You’re so gentle,” Miranda said. About a dozen follow-up sentences competed for the chance to be given voice. “You’re an incredible lover” was the sentence that won. “I mean it,” she added when she opened her eyes to Andy’s raised eyebrows. She meant it. 

Andy’s hands stilled. “But?”

“But I want you to pound into me as hard as you possibly can.” 

It was 9:30 at night. They were fully clothed. It was odd how sex could seem impossible even if you were minutes away from it, were talking about it. Miranda sat up and started to unbutton her shirt. “I’m ancient,” she said. She’d said it so much it was practically an incantation. “But almost unbreakable.” 

“Anything you want.”

Miranda wanted to feel not young but ageless. She wanted to be fucked so hard she’d be unable to use her legs for a few minutes afterwards. She wanted to lose control and get wet enough to make a mess. She wanted Andy to give that to her, and more than anything she wanted Andy to understand it, to enjoy it. When she met Andy, she stopped looking, but she was still afraid that even in her happiness she’d be hungry. Miranda peeled off the rest of her clothes, pushed the comforter down on her side of the bed, and stuck her hand between her legs, unable to wait. She noticed that Andy had hardly moved, and was still sitting fully dressed at the edge of the bed. “Get the lube, please?”

Andy snapped out of it and went to the dresser, where sex toys shared real estate with handkerchiefs and scarves. “A toy, too?” she asked as she rifled through the drawer. 

“No, just as much of your hand as I can take.” She was already close enough to orgasm that she felt like she couldn’t stop touching herself. It had been weeks since she’d masturbated, and she wanted Andy to see how she was being nice to herself and rough with herself at the same time, how in this moment they weren’t two different things. 

Andy laid down next to her and Miranda spread her legs, made room for Andy’s slick fingers. They were both curious about fisting, but tonight they chose speed over completeness. Andy drove four fingers into Miranda again and again, deeper than she’d ever tried to go. She pushed as hard as she thought she could, but Miranda pressed back and sobbed for her to go harder, so she pulled out long enough to kneel between Miranda’s legs and drive in again, her still-clothed knee working as leverage. 

“Don’t stop when I come,” Miranda gasped. After the first orgasm, Andy watched in amazement as her knee got wet, and she felt Miranda clench around her fingers a second time. 

“Okay,” Miranda said. She moved her own soaked fingers aside, watched happily as Andy removed hers. Miranda’s head dropped back then, and she was perhaps a little grateful for the pillows. 

A few minutes later, Andy--who had learned something--returned to her gentle self. When she was back, she laid down and entered Miranda again. Slowly and carefully, she pulled from Miranda sweet aftershocks, which Miranda felt not as shocks at all, but as warm tendrils curling up from her abdomen into the space behind her ribs. 

\--

On the first working morning of the new year, a _NY Post_ reporter waited for Andy when she arrived at the _Mirror_. Normally the few members of the press who’d bothered her took pictures and printed gossip without asking for comment, but this reporter, a tall redhead younger than she was, was hoping for a few words. “No comment,” Andy said, rolling her eyes at the absurdity of having to navigate past a reporter to enter a fucking newspaper office. She was halfway up the steps when she turned. “Actually, wait.” The reporter looked up from her phone, which she was using to either jot a note or take an awkwardly-angled photograph. “I’ll give you one thing.”

The reporter smiled. “Thanks, Andy. I was wondering--”

“Do queers deserve happiness? I think we do!” She pulled her long puffy coat more tightly across her chest even though she was about to go inside. “Print that or nothing at all.”

\--

Nigel could have sent Miranda a link to the web edition of _Page Six_ , but they both appreciated the drama of print too much for him to consider anything but the real thing. He came back from lunch and dropped the cheap paper on Miranda’s desk, flew out without a word. 

They were hardly big news, and last night Andy hadn’t mentioned being accosted by any journos, but they’d been written about just enough that Miranda turned her back to the giant glass wall before starting to read. Just as well. There was Andy on the page, beautiful despite a fully-realized snow queen scowl. _Do queers deserve happiness?_ There was Miranda, smiling down at her city, heart beating faster, a sky full of fresh air.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy new year, everybody. Keep it intersectional. Fight like hell.


End file.
